martinsmithstories

Photo by Hans-Jurgen Mager on Unsplash

Ignønsøn swallowed the last of his dinner. Following a satiated burp, he settled and again cast his eyes south to the horizon.

A disjointed sound from the south caught Ignønsøn’s ear, and he cocked his head and strained to listen. The sound turned to a jaunty tune, and a figure appeared on the horizon, only to be joined by a dozen others. The tune strengthened, carried by an Arctic wind, and as the figures neared, Ignønsøn saw a small brown bear brandishing a mace as he marched out front, followed by an orchestra of polar bears belting out the tune. Last came four muscular polar sows hauling a huge wagon upon which there sat a half-dozen polar bears.

When the merry sloth reached Ignønsøn, they and the music suddenly stopped. The muscular sows hurriedly pulled a giant canvas from atop the wagon and quickly assembled a large white tent in front of him. An Arctic hare appeared, bleary-eyed and with a cigarette dangling from his lips, and slowly set out a large ring of flambeaux between the tent and Ignønsøn. The hare and the sows disappeared inside the tent, leaving Ignønsøn alone to the flicker of torchlight and howl of Arctic wind.

The tent flap suddenly opened, and the members of the orchestra, each carrying a chair, walked out in single file and organised themselves in a semi-circle just to the right of the tent flap. Having tuned their instruments, they broke into a flourishing fanfare.

The small brown bear, carrying an enormous megaphone and wearing a top hat and tails, strode to the centre of the ring lit by the flambeaux. Following a beaming smile, he raised the megaphone to his mouth and said, ‘Ladi—sorry, I mean Gentlebear—welcome to Bearnum’s Circus of the Performing Arts, the Greatest Show on Earth. I’m PT Bearnum, your ringmaster, and tonight we have for you an extraordinary show. So, without further ado, let the show … begin!’

PT Bearnum stepped aside, and a piano inside the tent broke into a vaudeville melody as the tent flaps opened. Two polar bears appeared, dressed in yellow banana suits covering their bodies except for their white-furred limbs. Over their banana skins they wore matching red-and-white striped pyjamas, and wide-open eyes and generous grins were painted on their banana faces. Apart from one of them having exceedingly thin limbs, only the letters inscribed on their white collars—B1 and B2—distinguished them.

The bananas bobbled to the middle of the ring and stood back to back. Each raised a paw to where its fringe would have been but for the banana suit and scanned the horizon, shuffling in a cramped circle whilst peering out beyond the ring of light cast by the flambeaux.

When B1 came peel to face with Ignønsøn, it mimed a gasp of shock as its front paws rose to where its cheeks would have been but for the banana suit. B1 turned and tapped B2 on where its shoulder would have been but for the banana suit. B2 turned and B1 pointed towards Ignønsøn. B2 mimed a similar gasp of shock. They both then bobbled over and stood before Ignønsøn.

They gave him a long, exaggerated bow, and B1 extended a front paw towards Ignønsøn. He in turn extended a paw out to B1, but just before their paws touched, B1 snapped its paw back and brushed where its forehead would have been but for the banana suit.

‘Oh, ha-ha!’ Ignønsøn muttered. ‘You smug little shit! I hope you slip on your peel, split and bruise yourself rotten!’

B2 gave B1 a clip over where the back of its head would have been but for the banana suit. B2 then placed a paw on where its hip would have been but for the banana suit and shook where its head would have been but for the banana suit and wagged an admonishing claw at B1.

B2 turned to Ignønsøn and whipped a posy of flowers from behind its back and presented them to Ignønsøn. Following a mouthed ‘Aww! For moi. Why, thank you’, he reached out to accept the gift, but as he went to grasp the posy, it exploded in a cloud of crimson dust that left Ignønsøn a little red-faced.

B1 and B2 gave each other a high five and then placed their front paws upon the sides of their skins and leant back and wobbled as they mimed roars of laughter.

‘Oh, ha-ha!’ Ignønsøn muttered. ‘You sure got me there, you bananaed buffoons! I hope you both end up as banana bread in a Scandinavian health food franchise!’

Still B1 and B2 wobbled about with mimed roars of laughter until B1 suddenly froze and clutched at where its chest would have been but for the banana suit, only to keel over and collapse dead stiff. B2 rushed to B1’s side and attempted to stir B1 with a pat of its paw. B1 did not respond. B2 raised B1 by the scruff of where its collar would have been but for the banana suit and slapped B1 across where its cheeks would have been but for the banana suit. B1 did not respond. B2 leant over B1 and pinched where B1’s nose would have been but for the banana suit. B2 then placed where its mouth would have been but for the banana suit over where B1’s mouth would have been but for the banana suit and delivered a resuscitating breath. B2 then rose and placed its intertwined front paws upon where B1’s chest would have been but for the banana suit and delivered 30 rhythmic chest compressions. B1 did not respond. B2 repeated the resuscitating breath and rhythmic chest compressions. Still B1 did not respond.

As Ignønsøn gaped in horror at the unfolding tragedy before him, a megaphone appeared through the gap in the curtains, and PT Bearnum announced, ‘Ladi—sorry, Gentlebear, is there a doctor in the audience?’

B2 stood and looked towards Ignønsøn. It crossed its arms and tapped its hind paw on the ground as if lost in deep thought. Suddenly, it raised a foreclaw to the air as if struck by a bright idea and then knowingly nodded where its head would have been but for the banana suit. Raising B1’s paw, B2 placed where its mouth would have been but for the banana suit upon B1’s little right foreclaw. B2 took a huge breath and blew upon the foreclaw. And B1’s limbs stirred and rose. B2 blew and blew. And B1’s top half stirred and bent and sat. B2 blew and blew and blew. And B1’s lower half stirred. And B1 stood.

But still B2 blew upon B1’s foreclaw, and B1’s banana suit swelled and swelled, threatening to split. Suddenly, B2 stopped and pointed at itself and then at B1. B2 ran its claw across where its throat would have been but for the banana suit, only to remove a knife from behind its back and plunge it into where B1’s heart would have been but for the banana suit.

As banana pulp spurted from B1’s wound, B1 staggered backwards as its banana suit rapidly deflated. It bounced off the wagon, crashed through the orchestra and knocked over half-a-dozen flambeaux, only to, with its bananus aflame, sit itself in a pail of water. As the water hissed and bubbled, steam rose and B1 released an audible sigh.

Suddenly, with a booming crash of the piano keys, B1 exploded, leaving behind a cloud of purple smoke. When the smoke thinned, only the knife remained beside the now empty pail.

‘Shame about B1,’ Ignønsøn said to himself. ‘Hands down, it was the pick of the bunch.’

With a fanfare from the now reassembled orchestra and much to Ignønsøn’s surprise, B1 reappeared, bursting from the tent, and bobbled over to B2’s side. The bananas grasped paws and took a slow, exaggerated bow before Ignønsøn, who broke into applause. Raising their right forepaws, B1 and B2 turned to the orchestra and acknowledged the musicians. They repeated the acknowledgement to PT Bearnum. Following a final bow and wave at Ignønsøn, the two bananas bobbled back toward and disappeared through the tent entrance.

The hare appeared and sauntered over to pick up the knife. He then meandered about the firelit ring, scooping pulped mess into a dustpan with languid sweeps of a hand broom. When finished, he ambled offstage. PT Bearnum reappeared with a beaming smile and his megaphone.

‘Ladi—sorry, Gentlebear, wasn’t our first act brilliant? Bip the Banana and Bip the Banana Too. Two rising stars in the world of mime; indeed, the world of performing arts. I should point out that no bananas were injured during that performance. Though I suspect that one or—err, well, one—member of the audience may have been left with a slightly bruised ego. Boom! Boom!’

Ignønsøn failed to see the funny side of the ringmaster’s attempted humour. ‘Get on with it, you twit!’ he shouted.

‘Ah! I see we have a critic in the audience tonight. A show wouldn’t be a show without at least one. Patience, good sir, and bear with us—Boom! Boom!—for we’ve barely begun—Boom! Boom!—and the best is yet to come. So, Ladi—sorry, Gentlebear, next we have a real treat for you, two giants of the world of ballet who have generously agreed to take time away from their demanding schedules as principals at the Mariinsky Ballet at St Petersburg to make their one and only performance for Bearnum’s Circus of the Performing Arts. Tonight, Ladi—sorry, Gentlebear, they will perform for you Tchaikovsky’s greatest pas de deux. I give you … the world’s greatest danseur … the White Crow … the one … the only … Rudolf … “The Rouge” … Nu … reyn … dear … ev! And the prima ballerina assoluta … the Doyen of Dance … the one … the only … Anna … Pav … a … lo … va!’

PT Bearnum scrambled to the side of the ring as a short, emaciated polar bear wearing an enormous dance belt that bulged beneath his flimsy tights burst from the tent. To the accompaniment of Tchaikovsky’s masterful score and with a raised snout and a flurry of exaggerated forelimb flourishes, he defied his altered centre of gravity as he leapt about the ring, performing a grande sissonne, a double cabriole and a tour en l’air, before he—with dazzling speed and power—completed a coupé jeté en tournant en manége, circling the ring with quick turns between split jumps, until he stopped, knelt on one knee and extended his left paw (and dance bulge) towards the tent.

The tent flaps parted, revealing a huge sow squeezed into the tiniest of pink tutus.

‘Holy sow!’ Ignønsøn whispered. ‘Pavalova, hey? Looks like she’s packed a few of those away in her time.’

Anna raised and joined her front paws above her head, rose en pointe on her hind legs and with a flurry of bourrées she travelled en avant to the middle of the ring to join Rudolf and his bulge. She stopped and settled into first position.

Rudolf rose and stood at a distance from Anna and broke into a dazzling array of pirouettes, fouettés and à la seconde turns, each time landing with a final lunge. He then completed another coupé jeté en tournant en manége, circling Anna with even faster turns and even more powerful split jumps, until he stopped and knelt before her on one knee and again extended his left paw (and dance bulge) towards her.

Anna gracefully moved to the right side of the ring, while Rudolf stood and spun his way to the left side of the ring. Both paused and composed themselves.

The megaphone appeared between the tent flaps, and PT Bearnum announced, ‘And now, Ladi—sorry, Gentlebear, the pièce de résistance. The Grand Pas de Deux!’

The music lulled, replaced by the delicate plucking of a harp. With a flurry of theatrical limb and head movement, Rudolf braced himself, his forelimbs open and inviting and his bulge tempting. Anna lowered her snout with coy demureness, only to raise her head and smile sweetly. And with a final flourish of her forelimbs and a stirring surge of strings from the orchestra, she stepped towards him and broke into a not-so-fleet-footed run, thundering across the ring. The tent shook and the wagon creaked. As she neared Rudolf, she attempted a grand jeté, eager to land in the arms of her prince. But, alas, she tripped at take-off and stumbled forward, only to, with a resounding thud, head-butt Rudolf in the groin, knocking herself out cold and crippling him.

‘Boy, oh boy!’ Ignønsøn said. ‘Now that’s what I call a nutcracker.’

Downing their instruments, the orchestra rushed over and surrounded Ms Pavalova. The hare wandered over and grasped a writhing, red-nosed Rudolf by his hind ankle and dragged him inside the tent.

As Ignønsøn watched the red-faced musicians strain as they attempted to lift the stunned prima ballerina assoluta, the Arctic hare popped up from a hole between Ignønsøn and the ring. He looked about with jerky head movements until, seemingly assured of his safety, he hopped out of the hole and lolled and yawned whilst watching Ms Pavalova being loaded with a winch onto the wagon.

His attention waned, so he lit a cigarette, took a draw and surveyed the surrounding vista. He jumped in shock when he came upon Ignønsøn.

‘You’re … you’re not going to eat me?’ he said, cowering.

Ignønsøn gave a laugh and said, ‘Certainly not. You’re not even an entrée to me. Besides, I’m full. I had Mexican for dinner. Hi, I’m Ignønsøn.’

The hare relaxed. ‘Hi, I’m Lepus Arcticus. The company hareabout.’

‘Hareabout? What’s that involve?’

‘It’s like a gopher, running around doing all the crap jobs, except I get the added bonus of no pay and the pleasure of freezing my nuts off every performance. Say—sorry, gotta go. Here comes the boss.’

As the wagon carrying the Doyen of Dance disappeared behind the tent, the four muscular sows, now wearing bow ties, filed out of the tent and lined up just to the left of the tent flap, opposite the orchestra.

PT Bearnum reappeared with a broad smile, raised the megaphone to his mouth and said, ‘Now, Ladi—sorry, Gentlebear, for our next act we have a true legend; indeed, the world’s greatest contralto profondo. Yes, Ladi—sorry, Gentlebear, we’ve spared no expense in luring her from La Scala to perform her signature aria and delight your ears. Ladi—sorry, Gentlebear, I give you … the Queen of the High Cs … La Divina … the one … the only … Signora Luciana Pol … ar … ot … ti!’

Again PT Bearnum stepped to the side, and the tent flaps parted, revealing a short, stout sow wearing a black tuxedo, a white scarf and a fake black beard. As she waddled forward, she waved about a white handkerchief until she came to a halt before Ignønsøn and wiped beads of sweat from her brow with the handkerchief. She took a deep, deep breath and composed herself, and following a nod to the orchestra, she raised her snout and closed her eyes.

As the dulcet opening strains of “Nessun dorma” came from the orchestra, Lepus dropped his cigarette butt down his hole and picked up a bundle of large boards. He turned, faced Ignønsøn and yawned.

‘Nessun dorma!’ Signora Polarotti sang.

With a look of total boredom on his face, Lepus raised a board in front of his chest. Nobody shall sleep! it read.

‘Nessun dorma!’ Signora Polarotti repeated.

An insouciant Lepus raised the board a little higher, gave it a shake and then tossed it aside with disdain.

On and on the orchestra played. On and on Signora Polarotti sang. On and on Lepus raised, displayed and tossed aside the surtitled boards.

Signora Polarotti paused, but the orchestra continued on as the four muscular sows rose as one and held their music binders out in front of them. One cricked her neck, another fiddled with her bow tie, another patted the fur on top of her head, and the last sow moistened her lips with a sweep of her tongue. Then, on the orchestra’s cue, they chorused, ‘Il nome suo nessun saprà.’

Lepus picked lint from his belly button as he held up a board. No one will know his name, it read.

‘E noi dovrem, ahimè, morir!’ the sows chorused.

Lepus scratched his behind as he held up a board. And we must, alas, die! it read.

The music built and built towards its magnificent finale until Signora Polarotti extended her front paws up and sang, ‘Dilegua, o notte!’

Lepus dusted dandruff from his shoulder as he held up a board. Vanish, o night! it read.

‘Tramontate, stelle!’ Signora Polarotti sang.

Lepus’s eyes closed and his head nodded as he held up a board. Set, you stars! it read.

Lepus startled awake when Signora Polarotti sang a spirited, ‘All’alba vincerò!’ Lepus hastily raised the last board above his head. At dawn, I will win! it read.

‘Vincerò!’ Signora Polarotti repeated.

A bleary-eyed Lepus ran his paw back and forth under the words I will win!.

‘Vincerò!’ Signora Polarotti repeated again, and she held the final note.

Lepus gave the board a final vigorous shake and then tossed it on top of the pile of boards beside him. He turned his back to Signora Polarotti, lit a cigarette, took a long draw and stared out at the fading evening light.

But such was the strength of Signora Polarotti’s final note, her high C, that it forced Lepus to topple over. With his bulging eyes watering, his long ears peeling back and his white jowls flapping, he gingerly crawled towards his hole and disappeared down it.

Still Signora Polarotti prolonged her high C—indeed it was the Queen of High Cs—and about her the ice shelf shook until a huge, zigzagging fissure appeared behind her and tore its way along the ice sheet towards the distant ocean. Above, birds blackened the Arctic sky as they fled south for an antipodean winter. In the distance, musk ox and reindeer stampeded, and at water’s edge, walruses and seals suddenly sort refuge in the Arctic waters.

With a final flick of her handkerchief and a snap of her snout, Signora Polarotti completed her high C and raised her front paws even higher and threw her head back to soak in the applause.

Silence filled the vast, bleak landscape until a huge crack sounded from afar, and a massive wedge of sea ice tore from the ice shelf and plunged into the Arctic Ocean.

‘Holy Guuti!’ Ignønsøn said. ‘Now that’s what I call a set of lungs. Just imagine what would have happened if she had performed the mad scene from “Lucia di Lammermoor” and ended it with a high F.’

Ignønsøn stood and broke into vigorous applause as he shouted, ‘Brava!’ He tossed the sombrero at Signora Polarotti’s hindpaws. She collected it, pumped a clenched paw to her chest and mouthed ‘Grazie!’ until, following a final sweeping curtsy, she turned and disappeared back inside the tent.

PT Bearnum reappeared with his megaphone and smile. ‘I say, wasn’t Signora Polarotti wonderful, Ladi—sorry, Gentlebear? An unconfirmed rumour has it she set off the 1960 Valdivia earthquake. Now, Ladi—sorry, Gentlebear, we come to our final act tonight. It gives me the greatest pleasure to present the world’s greatest actor delivering one of the world’s greatest monologues from one of the world’s greatest plays, The Icesow Cometh. Without any further ado, I give you … the Garbo of the Great White Way … the Hepburn of Hollywood … the one … the only … Ms … Ursus … Mar … i …tim … us!’

PT Bearnum stepped to the side and the tent flaps parted, revealing a hunched, svelte sow wearing a trench coat and a black beret. After what seemed to Ignønsøn an interminable stillness and silence, the sow slowly stood, turned and faced her audience of one just as a gap in the clouds appeared and a shaft of sunlight lit up her face. She placed a front paw upon her chest and extended the other, open-palmed and holding a smouldering cigarette, towards the heavens. And with a raised snout, a stern theatrical disposition and a husky American accent, she began.

‘As summer drew nearer, I began obsessing about him, day and night. Dread built and built within me, consuming me with its blackness. And with that dread came self-loathing. I could barely bear myself. Bear the ice-veined bitch of a sow I’d become, bear how I abhorred myself for abhorring him, bear that impossible dream of his. Him. Me. His perfect life. Christ! Who can live with perfection? I tell you, it started driving me nuts. The closer June neared, the crazier I became. When the last day of spring arrived and I set off north, I resolved that it would be the last time. The last time I’d take that long day’s journey into the night of the Midnight Sun. The last time I’d treat him abysmally. The last time I’d tear his heart asunder.’

Ms Maritimus paused and took a drag of her cigarette. Ignønsøn tried to swallow the lump in his throat.

‘When I arrived that first night of summer, I lingered outside while he slept inside, unaware of my presence. Sick with dread, crazy with hate, I drove myself near cuckoo trying to come up with some way to break the news—that we’d never see each other again—to him gently, humanely. But I just couldn’t find the right words, and even if I had, there was no way I’d be able to say them to his face. I thought about walking away. But no, he deserved better than that. Then I realised what I needed to do. For his sake, and mine. Yes, peace for him, and peace of mind for me. I steeled my resolve and entered where he slept. As I looked down on him, lost in his pathetic dreams, I thanked Guuti he’d never open his eyes again, never bear the agony of a broken heart again, never know what I’d done to save him from himself. And that’s when I clubbed him to death.’

Ms Maritimus paused and silence filled the vast white landscape. Everyone sat frozen, spellbound.

‘I stood over him, finally free. Of him. Of his dream. I shook, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. And despite all he’d done for me, all the unconditional love he’d given me, all the forgiveness he’d shown me, all I could say was: “Not such a dream life, such a perfect life, now, you lousy son-of-a-sow!”’

Ms Maritimus gasped, as if appalled at her words, only to cry out, ‘No, surely not! Surely I didn’t say that, did I? Not to him! Not to a dear father whom I loved beyond words!’

Ms Maritimus lowered her snout, turned and fixed a pleading look upon Ignønsøn. His spine tingled as a large tear trickled down his cheek.

‘You’ve known me all my life. You know me. You understand me, right? Then you must know in your heart of hearts that it wasn’t the real me that came and did what I did. No, it was the crazy me, the Icesow, that cometh and dideth. O Guuti, you know I must have been insane, don’t you, Daddy?’

Daddy? A searing pain jagged at Ignønsøn’s heart as he whispered, ‘LøøLøø?’ He stood and took a step forward and said, ‘LøøLøø? Is that you, LøøLøø?’

The thespian broke character, looked at Ignønsøn and said in a broad cockney accent, ‘For fifty quid, me luvvy, I’ll be anyone you want me to be. LøøLøø, Bobo, Mama. Even Papa, if that’s your predilection. But if you’re wanting Moby Dick, it’ll cost you an extra fifty for the blowjob.’

Ignønsøn blushed, stammering politely, ‘No, thank you.’

PT Bearnum’s megaphoned voice came from inside the tent. ‘Thank you, Ladi—sorry, Gentlebear, thank you, you’ve been a great audience. If you’ve enjoyed tonight’s performance, please let your friends know. Again, thank you, and goodnight, Guuti bless and Guutispeed.’

And with that the tent collapsed and the muscular sows folded it and loaded it back on the wagon. And the troupe formed a single line, and with PT Bearnum leading the way at a jaunty gait, they marched off northward to the strains of “Auld Lang Syne”. Soon they disappeared over the horizon and the music was lost to a rising Arctic wind.

Ignønsøn turned south and resumed waiting for his daughter. Come midnight, she still had not arrived, so he sighed and headed home in disappointment.

Part Four will be published on 1 May, 2026